Born Into a Trap
by buttons7
Summary: The children of Jonathan and Thayet are growing up and discovering the weighty burden of their royal status. To Tortall, they are the perfect family but, behind closed doors, the mysterious death of Princess Vania threatens to tear the Contes apart.
1. Lessons and Letters

**This is technically a revised version. Except by 'revised' what I really mean is that I went through it and made the paragraphs shorter because I know that the way they are displayed on this website makes them look nastily large. Anyway, this is my first attempt at fanfiction and as such I think it gets better as it goes along. And all that.**

**Disclaimer: I disclaim, none of it is mine, it all belong to Tamora Pierce and I am just borrowing. (Except for the bits that I invented).**

'_A princess must always be mannerly. The deportment of a princess is the point of reference for all court ladies…_' Kalasin sighed as she copied the lesson, transferring the rules of royal etiquette from an ancient leather-bound tome into her own handwritten volume. It was a traditional practice – each successive generation of Tortallan princes and princesses spent years studying how best to present themselves in a royal court by writing out a lesson every day. The Princess' tutors frequently claimed that the large and cumbersome book which resulted from such endeavours would ensure that she never embarrassed herself in public.

In the eyes of those whose job it was to train the royal progeny, no crime was as serious as the accidental use of the wrong fork at dinner, or an inelegant curtsey to a foreign dignitary. Whilst Kalasin, despite her best efforts, couldn't refute the importance of maintaining a suitably regal presence (it was, as her mother frequently reminded her, the most important weapon in the purely metaphorical armoury of a princess) she often wondered at the wisdom of this particular method of teaching. The only explanation she and Roald had ever thought up for the dull lessons was that the prolonged exposure to such excruciating tedium was perhaps intended to bore all traces of rebelliousness out of the royal children.

Carefully, she closed the book and placed it beside her on the polished wood of her window-seat, glancing outside into the enclosed courtyard where her youngest siblings played, throwing and catching a stuffed leather ball, enjoying the spring sunshine. At six, nine years younger than the Princess, the twins were still learning their letters, and were young enough yet to avoid the long days spent learning etiquette in the King's study.

"I see you've finished the lesson already?" A deep voice interrupted Kalasin's musings. Her father was looking up at her from his desk, "I know it's boring, but it's useful. Anyway, just think of the benefits to your handwriting!"

The Princess smiled, allowing herself to enjoy the light-hearted banter, ignoring the strained note in the King's voice and the look of sadness that he couldn't quite keep from showing in his eyes. Her gaze drifted to the piece of paper he clutched in one hand: a letter with the Queenscove seal. She unconsciously fingered a well-worn black velvet band on her wrist. News about her younger brother, she guessed, and not good news by the look of it.

She quickly turned her attention to the etiquette books. '_To fail to be polite is to sully one's reputation,_' she wrote, focusing on the loops and curls of formal script, shoving all thoughts of her sibling from her mind, barely noticing as the door to the study opened to admit her mother.

Thayet quickly crossed the room to stand beside her husband's desk. "News from His Grace?" she asked, clearly anxious. Jonathan nodded, glancing pointedly at Kalasin who sat in the window-seat, apparently absorbed in her lessons. The Queen turned with a rustle of silk. "Kally?" The Princess looked up. "I think you've been cooped up long enough. It's a lovely day outside and I need to talk to your father. Could you go and watch Jasson and Lianne?"

Kalasin stood and curtseyed to her parents, pleased to be allowed to go and sit in the little square of garden, with its soft green lawn and the pretty flowerbeds that the Queen insisted should be left to grow wild. She enjoyed spending time with the twins, too: they were so young and carefree, not yet weighed down by royal responsibility. An hour or two with her little brother and sister and Kally would always feel herself relax, forgetting to care about whether or not she was sitting up straight enough or if her hairpins were still in place.

The delicate scent of the wildflowers enveloped her senses as she walked into the garden. She shut her eyes for a moment, savouring the fresh coolness of the air, before flopping onto the grass, grinning as the young Prince and Princess caught sight of her and swiftly abandoned their game in favour of joining her. Jasson, well accustomed to working around his bossy twin's whims and needs, settled himself beside his elder sister, allowing Lianne to tumble into Kalasin's lap and dramatically announce that she was exhausted. Kally laughed at the little girl's antics and tickled her, teasing her siblings in K'mir, the rapid, flowing language of her mother's race.

Only half listening to the children as they relayed the day's events – including what they had had for breakfast, and exactly what the dead frog that Jass had found in the morning looked like – Kally let her mind wander, soon finding herself considering her own childhood. It had never been normal, she reflected, but it had been happy. Her parents were not as distant as many monarchs were - the princes and princesses of Tortall had all grown up in the pleasant royal wing of the palace, under the watchful eyes of King Jonathan and Queen Thayet, one or two experienced nursemaids and countless 'aunts' and 'uncles' – but, like any royal couple, they understood that their offspring needed to be independent.

As their children grew, the pair had carefully and gradually introduced the formal relationship expected between rulers and their children. By the time they were six, the young princes and princesses were taught to acknowledge their parents' rank in public by bowing; at eight they attended courtly parties during the day, and by ten they were expected to be capable of performing as befitted their status in all social situations.

It was a system borne out of necessity, Kalasin knew. On the death of the ruling monarch, the Crown Prince was expected to accede to the throne as quickly and painlessly as possible, binding himself to the land to ensure his own stability. A grieving heir meant a longer period of time with no reigning king: an opportunity, as her own father's coronation had proved, for the plans of would-be conspirators against the Crown to gain momentum. By distancing themselves from their children, the monarchs exploited the gap between the generations, forcing the young royals to rely on one another for support and to forge relationships with the sons and daughters of the aristocracy – thus creating the basis for the court and council of the future.

Kally suspected that this tactic was also useful in other ways. It wasn't written anywhere in her books on 'The Role of a Princess' but she knew that her chief importance was as a diplomatic bargaining tool – no amount of treasure or wartime casualties were as effective in international politics as Marriages of State. Roald, often dismissed as quiet or shy, possessed a dry wit that had often made Kalasin laugh - but never as much as when he speculated on the reasons why their parents had decided to have seven children. Yet, during the recent negotiations with Carthak over her marriage to the young Emperor, it had occurred to the Princess that perhaps her brother had been serious when he suggested that Jonathan and Thayet – both only children – were sick of the assassinations and political coups that came with being the only heir to a kingdom.

Feeling a pang of loneliness as she thought of Roald - still training with his knight-master at Port Legann - Kalasin gently shunted Lianne onto the grass, raising herself up to peer into the window of her father's study. The conversation was certainly animated: judging by the Queen's look of exasperation and her expansive hand gestures the couple were in disagreement.

Settling back on the grass, the Princess wasn't sure whether to feel relieved or annoyed. Her parents weren't talking about her marriage; she could tell that much from the letter her father had been holding earlier. _Of course_, she thought bitterly, _that means that they're arguing about Johnny_ – Jonathan – the second eldest prince, three years her junior. Kalasin shut her eyes and breathed deeply, forcing back a wave of anger at the thought of her brother, tugging at the black band on her wrist. Jasson, perceptive for his years, noticed her sudden change in mood.

"Kally? Are you alright?"

She opened her eyes, looking at the boy, and leaned forward to pull a few blades of grass out of his jet-black hair. "I'm fine," she sighed.

"Why are you playing with that black bracelet?" Lianne asked. "And why are you still wearing it? It's old and dirty," she said pulling a mock-disgusted face, as her brother nodded in solemn agreement.

Kalasin lay down on the floor and inspected the soft velvet band. Lanny was right, it was tatty, but she wasn't ready to take it off yet. "I wear it for our sister," she said softly.

"Vania. Mama told me," Lianne replied. "I don't remember her though. Neither does Jass." The boy shook his head, reinforcing the point. His twin yawned and lay on her back next to Kally. "Mama said Vania was born with me and Jasson, and she died when we were still babies. Papa said she was weak and that's why she died." Jasson tugged at one of his shoelaces, restless and eager to play catch-the-ball again. He grabbed a clump of grass and threw it over his sisters, chuckling as Lanny leapt up and ran across the lawn, shouting at him in the strange part-Common part-K'mir dialect that they used to communicate when alone.

Kalasin watched as her brother ran off to play; mulling over what the little girl had said. She wondered if her parents would ever tell the twins the full story of Vania's death. Probably not, she mused. The twins were too young to understand the word 'murder_'. Besides_, she thought bitterly, _they wouldn't risk turning the little ones against their dear little lunatic son._

**I can't really see the point in saying "PLEASE REVIEW" just here as there are, in fact, other chapters posted at the moment. So please read on. Unless you have found this first chapter so bad that you can't face reading on. In which case, please review and tell me why.**


	2. The Argument

**Again, paragraph shortening (none of the words have been lost, I just put the spaces in different places). And I changed a few words. Aaaanyway read read read.**

**Disclaimer: I disclaim, none of it is mine, it all belongs to Tamora Pierce and I am just borrowing. (Except for the bits that I invented).**

Thayet stood in front of her husband, matching his piercing sapphire gaze with her own fierce hazel eyes. "Baird wants to use _what_?" she hissed.

The King's deep voice was quiet and even. "Datura," he said, his expression impossible to read, "It can be used to make a powerful sedative-"

"I know what it is," his wife interrupted. "And I know what it can do if it isn't used correctly."

"Mithros, Thayet, the Duke is the Chief of the Royal Healers! He wouldn't administer a medicine that he didn't understand. And you know he wouldn't ask to use that kind of treatment if it wasn't necessary."

The Queen let off a colourful stream of K'mir curses, earning a reproachful look from her husband. Jonathan did not understand what she said. Nor did he particularly want to, he thought to himself, judging by the angry cast of her features. He turned slightly towards his desk, casually pushing a stray piece of paper back into its rightful place with a long finger, and waiting for his wife's temper to abate. Thayet strode forward and grabbed Duke Baird's letter from on top of the heavy oak table.

"Have you not read the letter, Jonathan?" she demanded, seething. "He writes – and I quote – 'I have never used this extract in such a potent preparation and thus cannot be assured of the effects it might have.' Does that sound safe to you?" She was flushed and her voice was strained, "It could kill him. Do you really want to risk losing another child?" She choked on the last few words.

"No," the King paused, staring at the letter. He looked up at his wife. "But I'm not sure we have another choice." Thayet turned away, wrapping her arms around herself.

"I can't do it again," she whispered. "Isn't it enough that we have to deny them a true childhood? That when we send them to be married, we do so knowing that we will never see them again?" She turned to face her husband, her eyes bright. "The Black God took our parents in their prime, Jon. Does he have some claim over our children too?" She covered her face with her hands, letting Jonathan pull her gently into his arms, gently kissing her forehead.

"I don't know, sweet. I wish I did." He breathed deeply, inhaling the scent of her hair, and tightened his arms around her familiar form, feeling her shudder as she cried quietly against his shoulder. He held her, comforting her until she calmed. "My father used to say that kings bring death wherever they walk. I always thought he was talking of war. I suppose I don't like to think of the other lives that I've cost." He sighed heavily. "Thayet, we need to decide about Johnny."

"I know," was the quiet reply.

"The datura – it's dangerous, yes. But he's suffering. Baird says he's been delirious since we saw him at Midwinter. He's tried every other treatment he can think of. If this sedative is powerful enough, it might be a way to end the fits." The King placed his fingers under his wife's chin and tipped her head back slightly, looking into her eyes. "We must do all that is in our power to help him, Thayet. He's too young to be allowed to suffer like this."

"If the medication works, could he return to the palace? I ought to be with him, I'm his mother, I-"

"I'm not sure that that would be a good idea." The King inclined his head slightly in the direction of the window. Thayet saw her eldest daughter relaxing on the soft grass outside.

"She was angry. She didn't mean it."

"She still wears a mourning cuff."

"But that's for Vania, isn't it? Surely she can't still think that about Johnny?"

Jonathan shrugged, "You hear as much of the court gossip as I do. There are still rumours about what happened. I'm not sure what she thinks – she hides it so well. I suppose things could have changed." He paused, unconvinced by his own words. "I'm just not sure that she can accept Vania's death. She was young and with Johnny as he was…" he trailed off.

"I know." Thayet carefully extracted herself from her husband's embrace. "It was hard for her. It was hard for all of us." She pursed her lips and brushed the front of her dress off with her hands, willing herself into composure. She placed the letter on the desk, trying to smooth the creases out of the paper, before turning her attention to the King. "I suppose we have a letter of reply to write," she said, the slight quiver in her voice the only hint of her true feelings. Jonathan nodded his agreement.

A flurry of activity outside the window caused them both to look up. Infectious childish giggles followed a shrill K'mir expression of displeasure. By the sound of things, the twins had ambushed their older sister with the worms that they had been busily digging up all morning. The corners of the King's elegantly carved mouth turned up in mild amusement as he watched the Princess Royal cavorting with the little children. "Do you think we ought to let her stop the book lessons?" he asked his wife, gesturing towards the closed leather volume resting on the window seat. "Perhaps it would help heal her if she could have more free time. And anyway, surely she'll just have to relearn an entirely new set of manners if this Carthaki marriage is arranged?"

"She certainly needs more freedom. She's been like a caged bird recently." Thayet looked thoughtful for a moment. "I'm not sure about the lessons though. Is etiquette so different in Carthak?"

Jonathan looked at his wife, a rueful smile touching his lips. "How should I know?" he asked his wife, "I've never been."

**Same drill as last chapter. Read on! Unless you really don't want to in which case review and explain. If you read on, I will, of course, expect you to review later! And don't think you can get away with slinking off sans reviewing. These free hit counters are great and I can tell when people read and don't review! Of course, I can't exactly chase you up because I've got no idea who you are, and even if I did I wouldn't because that would be really weird. But I could still feel hated and cry myself to sleep every night (I'll admit it's unlikely. But are you willing to take the risk?). Avoid the guilt. Review.**


	3. Nightmare

**I'm supposed to be doing revision but I'm more bored than I've been in a long time. So I'm writing another chapter, which is much more fun. Again, I disclaim. Ooh that rhymes.**

He heard a rumble of thunder, felt the slash of a lightning bolt. No, he begged, not again, not again. He stumbled, the weight of his own body almost too much to bear. The walls of the hallway melted and flashed; he could already smell the acrid fumes. A room filled with roughly hammered cauldrons; thin, shadowy figures standing beside them. The light came from the metal basins, so bright and fierce that it made his eyes sting and water.

A shove and an expostulation and he fell; he was kneeling by one of the cauldrons, the vessel already filled with dark powder. He was weak, but he knew the pain would be worse if he didn't work. Shivering he reached inside himself, searching for the well of blue fire. Fire to make fire-pain, to melt armour and scorch flesh. He raised his hands, forcing the raw light into the powder, feeling his last reserves of strength mingle with the fire, draining himself to feed to flames.

The powders glowed and changed, rolling and swirling, blazing. Coloured lights danced in his eyes, in his mind; he felt himself drifting. A weight on his chest, legs, many thin cold legs tapping him, the smooth shell body brushing against him. Move, he screamed silently, begging his lifeless limbs to react, to push it away. Words echoed in his ears, don't stay still, never stay still, carrion, dead meat. Clicking, quiet clicking, the movement of jaws. Teeth tearing his skin, feasting on him.

A sickening twist and it changed, the legs were gone, and the pain disappeared. There were eyes all around him, piercing blue eyes, accusing him of terrible things. He saw his sister, saw her face contort in grief and fury. _What did you do, Jonathan?_ Clouds began to roll in, dark grey, black masses, obscuring his vision. _Johnny, what did you do to her? _He curled up, hiding from the pain, from the fire and the terror, but it stayed with him.

Her voice was the crack of the lightning, reaching out to strike him, to set the flames burning again. Eyes and eyes and eyes all watching, all hating. He looked down at what he held in his arms, so small, so young, and saw her pain, her fear and confusion. His brother, panic-stricken, running to find the healing-man. He wouldn't be fast enough, he had to help her; he had to save her from the pain. A door swinging open, dark silhouettes against the light, shrill noises, sobs, shouts. Too late, too late; already she was growing cold. The thunder and the lightning were deafening him, he couldn't think, he couldn't speak, the storm drowned him out.

He felt hands pushing him down. Terror became strength as he twisted and writhed, trying to free his limbs from the firm grip of his captors. An arm across his chest and shoulders pinned him on his back while a hand pushed his chin up, forcing a metal tube into his mouth. He felt a cool palm press against his forehead, a green light breaking through the fire. Every muscle in his body tensed he tried to fight off the intruder, vainly throwing his magic against silvery barriers, ignoring the pain that seared the skin on his wrists. Bitter liquid flowed through the tube into his mouth, almost choking him as he coughed and struggled against it. Shadows raced through him, blanketing his senses and stifling the burning flames. Darkness quelled the tempest in his mind.

**I know this is a bit of an odd chapter – but there is a point to it! It was originally a little section of a chapter with the other bit kind of explaining what is going on. But the second bit got a bit long so I've split it all up and will make the rest of it into chapter 4. So this is now a mysterious chapter –wahey! Well, not that mysterious because there is a chapter after it.**

**Anyway, if you've just read this story PLEASE review (even with just the words "I like this" or "I think this is rubbish" because that would be helpful).**

**And thank you to my previous reviewers:**

**Mycatcoco7 – thank you again!**

**Edreya Natalya – thankee kindly! That was my first ever review and it was a nice one, which is encouraging **** And I think I'm just going to give up on double-spacing. Who needs spaces anyway?**


	4. Mystery

**I'm still disclaiming and all that. This is the chapter which chapter 3 was supposed to be part of. **

"Did it work?"

"I think so." Baird's voice was quiet; his expression distant as he used his Gift to examine his patient. "Check his wrists, will you? He was fighting your spell."

His son leaned over, pulling the boy's left arm out from under the blankets.

"Not that one, I don't want to risk waking him."

"Oh, yes. Sorry." Neal replaced his patient's arm, wincing as he caught sight of the flesh on the inside of the elbow and forearm. It was badly scarred, the skin marred by strange, deep gouge-marks. The wound was old, but it clearly still gave its owner pain. Standing up, Neal shuffled past his father, the Duke of Queenscove and Chief of the King's healers, careful not to knock the bed around which they were working. Gently, he lifted one of the boy's skinny wrists, and inspected the slim, flat metal band that encircled it. The wide surface of the silver band was etched with protective runes, designed to restrict the wearer's magical Gift. He ran his hand through his light brown hair and frowned.

"He's managed to corrupt several of the anchor spells," he informed his father. "I thought these were supposed to be the strongest ones you could find?"

"They are. But he's training in sorcery and battle magic." The Duke sat back on his stool, turning to Neal. "The Mother only knows why but his parents thought it would be a good idea."

"Isn't it? He's a prince; he needs to be powerful."

"He's also unstable. I told them he needed to be watched but they thought the Masters would restrict his power." Baird gave a short, mirthless laugh. "It seems that the mages of this country too quickly forget the lessons of the past."

Neal raised a sardonic eyebrow. "Not to question the judgement of my elders, father, but I hardly think we're dealing with the next Duke Roger here," he drawled, referring to the youth who lay unconscious on the bed. Baird was forced to agree. Prince Jonathan was thin – too thin – and pale. His hair was a dull charcoal in colour, and there were dark circles around his eyes. He had already been ill when he was sent away from the Palace to begin his training as a mage two years ago; his grief for the death of the youngest princess, Vania, exacerbating the mysterious condition. The City of Gods had done him no favours, but the Prince had the Conté Gift, and plenty of it.

Baird had never been convinced by the monarchs' decision to have him train as a sorcerer. Johnny might not have Roger's hunger for power, but his Gift looked, to the experienced mage who had known Roger as a young man, to be just as potent as the late royal Duke's - and the violent fits of hysteria that the boy had suffered since the Immortals War seemed to affect his ability to control his magic. He had been sent to the Queenscove dukedom after the King and Queen had seen him at Midwinter, exhausted, emaciated and seemingly mentally unbalanced. Shocked by the condition of her son and furious at the Masters for not informing her of the increasing frequency and severity of his fits, Thayet had demanded that Jonathan leave the City of Gods to be cured.

Baird had tried every treatment he knew – natural potions, charms, sleeping spells, and even more powerful magical procedures – but to no avail. The Prince seemed disoriented and afraid. Night after night, his screams kept both the Queenscove family and the servants who worked in the castle awake. The Duke had known Jonathan since birth, but the boy never gave any sign of recognising him - his sapphire eyes were feverish, and his gaze never rested on anything in the room around him. Instead he stared into an invisible middle-distance; manic and terrified, speaking rapidly in a strange language.

One of the maids, a pretty, copper-skinned Saren girl, confirmed Baird's suspicions that the Prince spoke in K'mir – the language that he and his siblings had been taught from cradling age by their mother – but even she could not translate all that he said. Johnny cried out for his parents and his brothers and sisters, begging for comfort. Stranger, and more unpleasant, were his terrified protestations against some unknowable torture. The Prince sobbed with fear and begged for mercy, for relief from his imaginary pain, clutching his damaged left arm.

A bell rang, its deep chime muted by the spells in the walls of the room, which often housed invalids who slept through the day. Baird stood, grimacing as he stretched the cramps out of his limbs. He turned to his son. "Nevertheless, we must be careful. It's an invasive treatment and I don't want to get burned to a crisp because I've accidentally upset him." Neal acceded with a nod, colouring slightly as his stomach growled loudly. His father regarded him with a wry smile. "Hungry?"

"Very. May I go to lunch? He's sleeping, anyway." The young man gestured towards Johnny.

"Fine," his father agreed. "But first pass me the paper and ink. I need to make some notes."

"Whatever you need, sir," Neal replied, giving a mock salute and tossing the writing materials to the Duke, before stepping out of the room into the corridor, failing to fully shut the door behind him.

Chuckling quietly at the sound of his son's footsteps echoing on the flagstones as he sprinted in the direction of the kitchens, Baird selected a sheet of paper, dipped his pen in the ink bottle and neatly recorded the details of the treatment that he had administered that morning. Holding the sheet of paper up and waving it around slowly to help it dry, he flicked lazily through the Prince's medical papers, pausing to examine one particular section. '_Cause of condition unknown_,' he read, his brow creasing into a frown. Tracing the root of an illness was often the best way to find a cure, but in Johnny's case, it was impossible.

The Duke guessed that the condition was a result of some trauma suffered by the Prince during the Immortals War. The King and Queen, wary of keeping all of their children in one place whilst immortal beasts threatened their safety, had split the royal household eighteen months before the final battle at Legann. Roald had been sent to Naxen, with the then training master, Duke Gareth, and the other pages; Kalasin had remained in the convent in the City of Gods. Vania, who had been born with a weakness in her heart, had come to Queenscove, whilst Liam, Jasson and Lianne had remained in the Palace - and were saved in a Hurrok attack only by the courage and skill of Sir Wyldon of Cavall. Johnny, second in line to the throne, had been moved at the same time as Vania. Travelling without a banner, in the care of four un-uniformed men of the King's Own, he had been sent to King's Reach, along the Great Road East.

Four days into the journey, the company had been ambushed by bandits. Three of the soldiers were killed, the fourth had returned to the Palace to deliver the news that the Prince had been taken. The monarchs had been distraught, and had sent out search parties – all in vain. With Tortall on the brink of war, and the uncertainties surrounding the allegiances of neighbouring realms before the visit of a Tortallan delegation to Carthak, they could spare few troops to search for the Prince, and had been unable to send them across the borders into Tusaine, Tyra and Galla. The only news of Johnny had been a sighting in Persopolis of a boy who matched his description – dark hair and the unusual eyes of the Conté line. Unfortunately, the boy had been travelling with a "merchant."

Groups of such merchants often passed through the Bazhir lands with large numbers of children, always claiming that the young boys and girls were family, despite the fact that the children never resembled the men who claimed to be their uncles and fathers, and invariably seemed to have been badly treated. It was, in fact, an illegal slave-trade that operated just outside the reaches of Tortallan law – traders were occasionally arrested and fined for their crimes; but they were elusive, and often carried faked papers claiming wardship of the children. The youngsters were sold to pirates who sold them again in countries where the slave-trade still flourished. Carthak and the Copper Isles both benefited from the Tortallan bandits' exploits; and it was rumoured that there were also well-hidden slave farms in some of the realms bordering Tortall. By the time troops had reached Persopolis to investigate the sighting, the traders had moved on, and the children were gone.

King Jonathan and Queen Thayet seemed to have given up all hope of finding their son – child labourers rarely survived into adulthood, and almost never managed to buy their freedom. It had come as a surprise, therefore, when four months after the Immortals War had ended, a travelling dignitary visiting hospitals in the capital city of Maren had happened across a nine year-old boy, with jet black hair, bright sapphire eyes, a horribly injured left arm, and a detailed knowledge of the upper echelon of the Tortallan court.

The healers who ran the hospital could shed little light on how Prince Jonathan had ended up in a clinic that cared mainly for those who could not afford to pay for medical treatment. He had arrived one day with an injured woman, both carried by an old and crotchety pony. His guardian had never said a word, and died within a few days from a deep and infected slash-wound across her belly – the sort that the healers only normally saw on those unfortunate enough to tangle with imperious, sword-bearing nobles, or drunken soldiers on leave. The wound suffered by the Prince himself was even more mysterious – not one of the men or women who had treated him could identify what had caused the strange, regular gouges.

The nightmares had begun almost as soon as the boy returned to the Palace. Johnny was not the happy, laughing child that he had been before. Gone was the boy who raced with his brothers and sister in the gardens and played pranks on unsuspecting royal councillors. The Prince became more and more introverted, shrinking away from strangers, comfortable with no-one but members of his family. King Jonathan and Queen Thayet were saddened by the changes, but had simply assumed that their son would heal with time and love. Instead, he continued to decline. What had at first been childish bad dreams, easily comforted by the gentle voice of a parent, became episodes of delirium. Johnny would cry and scream for hours before falling into a deep sleep and waking with no memory of his fits.

Vania's death had been the turning point - a dark evening in Baird's memory. The two eldest princes, Roald and Jonathan, had been left to care for the young princess. Without any warning, she had suffered a violent heart attack - panic-stricken, Roald had run to fetch the Chief of the King's healers, leaving Jonathan to try and comfort the ailing child. By the time Baird arrived, she was dead in her brother's arms, and he'd seen a few threads of the bright blue Conté gift - Johnny's - fading from her chest. There was nothing to suggest that the Prince had had a hand in the little girl's death - fear and desperation often caused uncontrollable, but generally harmless, bursts of magic in children whose Gifts were unschooled - but Court would be Court and a number of nobles, including the devastated Princess Kalasin, had speculated about what might have happened, particularly about whether or not the Prince's frequent bursts of hysteria were violent ones. It didn't help matters that after Vania's death, the Prince began to lash out against anyone who went to him during the fits, the presence even of his mother agitating rather than calming him.

Baird had speculated that perhaps the events of the Immortals War were to blame for the dreams – he had seen soldiers who suffered from episodic psychological conditions after experiencing trauma in the arena of war. But even in the early days of the illness, when he still had prolonged periods of lucidity, the boy had maintained, with impressive stubbornness, that he couldn't remember what had happened to him after he was abducted on the East Road. Healers had questioned him; his parents had questioned him; Numair Salmalín; Daine and even Baron George had tried to extract the information – but never with any success.

Eventually, they had given up, assuming that the severity of his arm-wound and the infection-induced fever that had followed it had damaged his memory. Duke Baird looked across at the bed on which the Prince lay, his frown deepening. Johnny's bad dreams were recurrent ones, he had the same imagined conversations, screamed the same words – surely it wasn't simply coincidence? Perhaps, the Duke thought grimly, perhaps he wasn't being entirely truthful about what he can remember. But what was the boy trying to hide from, he wondered. What had happened to the child that he so desperately wanted to forget?

**A good question, I'd say, and one that I know the answer to! But before I tell anyone else I want at least a couple of reviews pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeease. Otherwise I'll get paranoid that I'm really really crap. Go on, push the little button, you can say whatever you like, I can take it even if it's really critical, I promise.**


	5. Healer

**Thank you reviewers! You are wonderful people. **

**Sirladyknight – I tried to think of a good reason for the seven children but there isn't one. I just felt a bit rude killing established ones off and I needed one whose whereabouts are not known during the Immortals War. It was a choice between Liam and Lianne (from the books) or Jonathan and Dara (invented). I might change it if I don't use Liam and Lianne though. Thank you for reviewing and I'm trying to resolve the creepiness now.**

**Mycatcoco7 – Arr thank you! I have no idea who your friend is but if she reads it then I hope she likes it!**

**Boleyn – Thank you for reviewing (and thank you for being nice!). As you can see, I have indeed put the next chapter up.**

**Disclaimer: I disclaim, it's not mine, I am borrowing from Tamora Pierce (except for the bits I invented).**

The infectious giggling of the little girl filled the warm, grassy garden, resounding on the stone walls of the keep that shielded the flowers and trees from the gusting sea-winds. The cheerful sound of childish play reached Neal from where he sat reading in the shady veranda, and it was beginning to annoy him. Glancing up from the pages of his book he pulled a face at the perpetrator, extracting another peal of laughter. Neal was enjoying the rare peace and quiet: with the Prince beginning to recover and requiring less constant supervision, he intended to catch up on the months of reading that he'd missed whilst helping to care for the boy since Midwinter. Grumbling, the youth got to his feet and walked into the keep, muttering curses against noisy little sisters, planting himself on a window-seat that afforded him a good view of the garden and soon forgetting his young charge.

The child skipped merrily along the flagstone path, a wicker basket full of mud swinging from her hand as she busied herself in an attempt to create the tastiest dirt-pie any of the village children would have ever eaten. A few leaves, a handful of the sand that blew in from the cove and a liberal sprinkling of spring cherry blossom would surely do the trick. Rounding the corner by the rose bushes her foot hit an errant large stone and she tumbled to the ground with a squeak, the contents of her basket spilling across the walkway.

Sitting up she sniffed and rubbed her eyes, biting back tears. Lifting the hem of her dress she scrutinised an impressive graze on her knee. Fascinated, pain forgotten, she extended a curious forefinger to examine the cut.

"Don't poke it."

Startled, she dropped the material of her skirt and looked at the speaker.

"It'll hurt more if you poke it." His voice was quiet, but something in his tone reminded her of the way her parents spoke when she'd been naughty. It didn't do to ignore people who spoke that way.

She watched with wide eyes as he knelt on the grass beside her, pushing black hair out of his eyes and putting a gentle hand on her ankle whilst he inspected the graze. "Just a little scrape. Stay here for a moment." The boy stood up and walked off. The little girl watched him, curious, before covertly returning to the examination of her knee.

Inside the keep, the soft, low tones of the boy jolted Neal back to reality. Peering out of the window he could see the slender figure of the young Prince, clothed in a plain shirt and trousers, as he walked towards Baird's herb garden. Frowning, he looked for Marie, his youngest sister. Unable to see the little girl he got to his feet and leaned out of the window, craning his neck to see around the corner of some overgrown bushes, until he caught sight of her, sitting on the stone path. His frown deepened as he watched Jonathan return, a pitcher of water in one hand and something else that Neal couldn't quite see in the other. Suspicious, the squire shifted in his seat to get a better view. A regular, but carefully measured dose of the deep datura sedative had begun to calm the Prince's fits in the last month, but he still suffered frequently from episodes of uncontrollable emotion - crying, ranting and shouting, followed by a deep, amnesiac sleep. Neal's father firmly believed that the rumours surrounding the youngest princess' death were simply that - rumours - but Neal liked to maintain a healthy mistrust of people. Particularly those who, the court gossips claimed, might be inclined towards the misuse of their magical Gifts.

The Prince seated himself on the grass by Marie and lifted the pitcher of water. Stray tendrils of rosebush obscured Neal's view of the pair and he leaned further out of the window, trying to watch them, his efforts almost causing him to fall into a bed of his mother's favourite freesias. Righting himself and nursing a bruised elbow, he turned his attention back to Johnny and the little girl. Both of the Prince's hands were empty now and he was talking quietly to Marie. Neal couldn't quite catch what the softly spoken words and the boy was half-turned away from him, rendering lip-reading impossible.

To Neal's horror, the dark-haired youth tugged the sleeves of his shirt back to reveal the flat metal bands that impeded his Gift – or were supposed to – and held his arms out to the little girl. Marie nodded gravely, eyes fixed on the cuffs, apparently fascinated by the pretty runes etched onto the silvery metal.

"Marie!" Neal's tone was harsher than he had meant it to be. His sister looked up, as did the Prince. The older boy winced slightly as he met Jonathan's sapphire gaze – no less piercing than the gaze of his father and brother, despite his youth – before hardening his resolve and glaring at the young royal. Scrambling out of the window, Neal jogged over to where his sister sat, watching as the Prince stood up and retreated into the shade of a tree near the keep walls. His blue eyes were cold, with the suggestion of an emotion that Neal couldn't quite place.

"You shouldn't talk to him on your own, Marie." He kept his voice low, not wanting the younger boy to hear him.

"Why not? Papa says he's getting better."

"He is. But that might make him more dangerous."

"Why?" Marie looked confused. "He's nice. He made my knee less hurty - look!" She proudly revealed the grazed limb to her brother.

Neal swallowed, suddenly regretting his hasty actions. The cut had been cleaned and carefully covered with a thin, green leaf. Looking closer, the youth recognised the herb – it had healing properties, as it helped to draw dirt out of wounds. Dried and powdered it could be used as an antiseptic – a medicine which could cure infection. His forehead creased with bewilderment. Where did a battle-mage learn about healing herbs?

In the cool shade of the tree, Jonathan scowled and hugged his knees to his chest, refusing to look in the direction of the Queenscove boy and his sister. _Is this how they'll treat me if I go back? Will they all look at me like I'm some kind of monster? _His stomach cramped as he imagined his parents glaring at him, accusing him. He began to feel sick when he thought of Kally remembering what she'd said – what she'd thought. He felt tears forming in his eyes and blinked them back, giving up his attempt to avoid Neal and Marie in an effort to distract himself. Unreadable green eyes met his own.

Johnny fought the urge to curl into a ball, forcing himself to stare back. _I didn't kill my sister, Neal. Why would I want to hurt yours? _His head began to ache, warning him against thinking too hard and setting off another fit and he looked away. He'd willingly sacrifice his pride to avoid the things that he remembered when his illness took hold.

**Hello, welcome to the end of Chapter 5. If you've just read this, please review it. Or should I say, "the time has come to push the button." (Sorry, someone in my house is playing the Chemical Brothers. Ooer).**


	6. Siblings

**Disclaimer: I disclaim, none of it is mine, it all belongs to Tamora Pierce. I'm just borrowing it. (Except for the bits that I made up).**

In the royal wing of the palace in Corus, Kalasin slumped on her bed, shutting her eyes and wishing she could still hide under the soft counterpane as she used to when she was a child. "They want me to go back to King's Reach." Her voice was bitter.

Liam grimaced and seated himself on a wooden chair, "What's wrong with King's Reach? I thought you liked it? The Countess is kind and you said you got along well with Faleron and Cordelia?

"I do, but that's not the point."

The boy rolled his eyes. She might be four years older than him, but his sister was still as stubborn as a mule, even with the etiquette lessons. "What is the point then?" Part of him wondered why he was asking when he already knew the answer.

"Johnny."

"How did I guess?" Liam muttered under his breath. He'd only been back from the City of Gods for two days and old grievances were already making themselves known. Sighing, he fixed his sister with an even gaze. "They aren't picking favourites, Kally. Duke Baird can't keep him at Queenscove forever, and mother and father won't send him back to the City of the Gods yet. Anyway, you've been complaining about how boring it is here. Surely it'd be good to go back for a bit? You could spend more time riding and less time copying out these silly lessons."

Kalasin sniffed and sat up. "But the twins? I'd miss them. And the thought of him being allowed near them makes my blood boil."

Liam's eyes narrowed. "Please don't tell me you still think Johnny hurt her?"

"How can I not?" Kalasin retorted. "You might be too young to remember, brother dear, but they found her dead in his arms? Why do you try and stand up for him, he's as mad as-"

"He's not mad! Gods curse it, Kally," the young prince ignored the sharp look he received for swearing, "you haven't seen him in nearly two years, you have no idea how he is. All of the healers who have treated him say that he's sane – they think his problems are to do with what happened during the war! And yet you still think that he's some crazed killer? He loved Vania as much as you did, he'd never have hurt her!"

"But he can't be held accountable for his own actions – even our parents admit that."

"And who's to say that he was ill that night? Duke Baird examined him, he was fine!"

Kalasin looked away. "Then why did they find traces of his magic on her?"

Her brother swore again and jumped to his feet, knocking the stool over. "There's no way of telling what that was, even if it was a spell, there's no way that any of us can be sure what sort! No-one can prove what happened, so why can't you just leave the past alone?"

"He's a battle-mage. Numair says he has a natural aptitude for it. What else could he have done?" The Princess paused and fixed Liam with an accusing glare. "And why are you so protective of him all of a sudden?"

The Prince's voice was quiet. "I've seen him, Kally, you know I have. He was studying at the mage-school with me before he got too ill, remember? What's more, none of the other boys seem capable of stopping themselves from asking questions about him."

"Have you spoken to him?"

"I've spoken to something. But not the brother I remember. Last I saw him, he looked like a ghost, he was having fits all the time. And I don't think he's as natural with war-magic as everyone seems to think."

The Princess sniffed. "Oh?"

"He was kept back a year in magical substances classes. Thom of Pirate's Swoop is a second year, and he says that Johnny was in their group, even though he's thirteen now. Apparently, he refused to make blazebalm, or he had fits in the lessons."

"Probably just hiding his ability."

"Why bother? If you're training as a sorcerer, that sort of thing doesn't do you any favours. Anyway, I saw him in the library a few weeks before Midwinter. I was going to read up on some advanced magic when I saw him, and he was reading a book about herbs. Not exactly useful for battle-magic, you know."

Kally was unconvinced. "You're a first-year student. How do you know that herbs can't be used for battle?"

Her brother snorted. "I might be young, but the masters already admit that I'm promising - maybe even better than Johnny, for all that he's older. And as far as I know, medicinal herbs aren't much good against enemy mages." He sat down on the bed beside Kalasin, and looked up at his older sister. "Why can't you just admit that maybe you were wrong about him? Even Roald thinks that Johnny is innocent, and he was there when it happened."

The Princess looked at him with over-bright eyes. "Roald wasn't there when she died. He went to get a healer. You know as well as I do that Jonathan was alone with her."

"And she couldn't just have died by herself? Roald went for the healer because she was ill – I asked him what had happened and he wrote to me about it only a month ago! The Duke says her heart stopped. Why does it have to be Johnny's fault?"

"Because he spelled her! Anyway, Roald would never admit what he really thinks about that night. He's too concerned with his royal duty." Kalasin pulled a face at the last two words.

"But I'm his brother. I think he'd have told me if he suspected something. And if he didn't tell me, he'd have told someone else. He wouldn't protect Johnny if he thought he was a murderer. He's duty-bound to uphold the law, same as all of us!"

"Duty-bound to do what our parents say, you mean." The Princess tugged at the material of her skirt with restless fingers. "Just like the rest of us," she added softly.

Liam stared at the young woman, feeling a little pang of guilt at his harsh words. "The marriage?" he asked.

Kalasin nodded, twisting the lavender satin of her gown.

"Are you scared?"

Kally forced her features into a smile. "No, no of course not."

"Liar."

She sighed and met his gaze, her expression pained. "Well wouldn't you be? Being sent away from my family, my friends, everything I love. Sailing away to some far-off place with strange customs and food and a husband I've never met…"

Liam frowned. "I thought Papa gave you the choice? You didn't have to agree."

A rueful smile curved the Princess' lips. "Really? What could I have objected to? 'Oh Papa, I couldn't possibly marry him – his fortune is too great and his empire much too large!' No, Liam, father had this planned when he convinced me not to try for my knighthood. The Emperor is young – compared with most of my suitors, anyway – and he's powerful. Aunt Alanna and Aunt Daine both like him. Even Mama had to agree that it was a good match. I couldn't have refused, no matter how much I wanted to." She shook her head. "If only I'd decided to train as a page. I'd still have to marry Kaddar, but at least I'd have had a taste of freedom before they locked the door to my life behind me." Sighing she released the silky material of her dress, smoothing out the creases with delicate hands. "It's a trap, brother. We were all born into a trap. I'm a Princess but I'm not a person." She stood and walked across the room to gaze out of the window, the sunlight dancing over her fine features.

The boy shifted in his seat. "I know there are limits on us, Kally, but there are good things too. Like father says, ruling is a privilege, not a right. We have the power to change lives – whole kingdoms full of lives. It's an honour to live for one's people. Don't you see that?"

Kalasin gave a short, humourless laugh. "Royalty isn't a privilege. It's a gilded cage. You can fill the inside with all the pretty things of the world and you can make the edges as lovely and ornate as a spun-sugar subtlety, but it's a cage all the same." She looked at him, something akin to pity in her eyes. "You're young yet, brother, but one day you'll notice the bars."

Sighing, she stepped away from the window. Shadows veiled her face. "I suppose I had best start my packing. Their Majesties wish me to leave before the Summer Progress sets out." She turned to leave.

"Kalasin?" She halted. Liam never used her full name. She faced her brother, a questioning look on her face. "What happened to the Kally I used to know? The sister who played games with Johnny and me?" He paused and stared at the floor. "I don't see why the whole family has to get broken up. Vania's death… Johnny getting ill…none of it was on purpose." He scuffed the sole of his shoe on the wooden boards.

The Princess stood still for a moment, considering her answer. "Accidents happen, I suppose, and no matter what we'd like to think, they make a difference." She put a gentle hand on her brother's shoulder. "What happened to Vania changed everything. I'm not sure our family can ever be the same again." With a whisper of cloth she turned and left the room.

Liam remained standing in the half-light of the window, quiet and alone. _Maybe she's right and it can't be how it used to be, _he thought. _But we'll never find out if she won't even try. _

**I know this is a bit of a random update… but I checked my profile thing recently after a few months of absence and realised that I had a couple more reviews, etc etc aaand then I remembered that I wrote this chapter in about July and never posted it because I was considering shoving in an extra chapter between this one and the last one (which I never got round to writing and possibly never will). Anyway, since I think that 20 reviews is quite a nice, round number, I decided to shove this chapter up and see how it goes. If I'm honest, I've not proofread it (too lazy) and, moreover, I can't remember exactly what was supposed to happen between this chapter and the last one, so apologies if it doesn't make sense (I think it does, though). So, err, yeh, read and review! **

**Review Replies! (I nearly forgot… also, sorry if they don't make much sense. Some of those reviews are really old):**

**sirladyknight **– There is no way that this story will ever become fluffy, do not fear. I just mean that there is a point to it all! And thank you for reviewing again 

**TsukiHime** – Thank you so much! I'm really flattered that you've enjoyed it, and that you don't object to it not being fluff. I'm afraid I can't stand fluff. By the same token, I can't really deal with horror and terror very well, but I like a bit of substance. Thanks for the review!

**Oreostar90 **– Thank you!

**Mycatcoco **– Hehehe sorry if it's a bit confusing. If I ever finish it then it will make sense, I promise. It's meant to be confusing at the moment. Thanks for the review!

**Cesy ­**– I'm sure I emailed you in reply to your review… but it was so long ago that I can't remember. Anyway, thanks for the positive reviews and constructive criticism. Feel free to do the same to this chapter – particularly since I haven't proofread it!

**Kathryne Granger **– I'm really really really really really glad you liked it! If you read this, I hope you like it, too! Thank you for the nice review 

**Boleyn** – Ahh yes, poor Johnny. Obviously, I can't tell you whether or not it all gets sorted out for him (what would be the point of the story, eh?). But don't worry: I'm not a really sadistic author, so I feel that there is some hope for him, yet. Thanks for the review!

**Tortall princess ­ - **Thanks for the positive review! And here is an update… five months after you reviewed me is embarrassed.

**QTKiiT ­– **If you're still on here, hello! I'm afraid I kind of fell out of touch with you at the end of the summer (university takes up a lot of time, hehe). Anyway, I hope that everything is going well and that your stories are still cool. Thanks for the review!

**Leila ­**– Hehe, thanks for the positive review, and I'm glad you liked it. Thank you, also, for being nice about my spelling and grammar. I'm a bit of a pedant and I actually proof-read for fanfic writers (occasionally) as well as a local publication so it's always reassuring to know that my writing is reasonably correct! Anyway, look, I've written more!

**Winky-wink** – Ahhh thank you! I'm really glad you liked the story. I always find the Conte family interesting and I kind of wanted to write something about what goes on in their lives, because they're usually just a backdrop to other stories. Anyway, thanks for the review… you basically reminded me to update the story! 


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